Copyright © 2004 by Paul Howarth
All Rights Reserved

"I can scarcely hear," she murmured,
"For my heart beats loud and fast.
But surely, in the far, far distance,
I can hear a sound at last."
It is only the reapers singing,
As they carry home their sheaves,
And the evening breeze has risen,
And rustles the dying leaves.
The dying leaves.
"Listen! there are voices talking,"
Calmly still she strove to speak,
Yet her voice grew faint and trembling,
And the red flush'd in her cheek.
It is only the children playing
Below, now their work is done.
And they laugh that their eyes are dazzled
By the rays of the setting sun,
Of the setting sun.
Fainter grew her voice and weaker
As with anxious eyes she cried:
"Down the avenue of chestnuts,
I can hear a horseman ride,"
It was only the deer that were feeding,
In a herd on the clover grass,
They were startled and fled to the thicket,
As they saw the reapers pass.
Now the night arose in silence,
Birds lay in their leafy nest,
And the deer couch'd in the forest,
And the children were at rest,
There was only a sound of weeping
From watchers around a bed,
But rest to the weary spirit,
Peace to the quiet dead,
Peace to the quiet dead.

By Arthur Sullivan
Generated by NoteWorthy Composer

Will He Come?
Lyrics
Vocal
Right Hand
Left Hand